The Letter #2
It felt so right. So natural. Endorphins surged through Ardor. He felt sexy, desired, ready. He longed to kiss that awed mouth and share the intimate embrace he’d quietly longed for.
Every day since, Ardor thanked the Goddess his father interrupted before it went any further. He understood now that the acolyte would have been executed immediately. As it was, the young man was flogged and banished.
Ardor’s father was in a pique. His father was long suspicious of that crooked seam, and this was the proof he needed. Something was wrong with Ardor’s flower, and it must be fixed immediately.
The medical examinations that followed were humiliating.
Ardor went from never being touched by anyone but his faithful acolyte and champion to being touched by many strange, gloved hands.
He was touched and examined under a harsh light.
He was no longer a divine being; he was a specimen.
Finally, the doctor determined Ardor had a “loose bloom” and it would prematurely open again unless steps were taken.
Binding was an extraordinary step. The practice was banned in many places for good reason, but too much was at stake. His father’s pride was on the line, after all. He was desperate to correct the mistake before the Archon realized an error in his handiwork.
Thus, Ardor’s flower was sewn shut. Not only to keep him chaste until marriage, but to make the crooked seam straighter and smaller. More beautiful. More traditional. So that all of him could be perfect.
It hurt for months. Every step was a reminder of his mistakes, and the lectures were unending. Ardor must save his bloom for his consort, and no one else. Again and again, his father chastised him, as if he’d done it on purpose.
Eventually, the pain of the stitches went away, but the tightness remained. Ardor accepted his punishment, not realizing that something was wrong. The doctor had never bound a Flower before, and in his eagerness to guarantee Ardor’s purity he’d sewn his patient much too tightly.
Even if Ardor had spoken up and told them it hurt, that it was too tight, they wouldn’t have listened. And now…
Ardor instinctively averted his eyes from the mirror when he parted his robes. It was second nature to look away, but he’d avoided this too long. He had to face what he was.
He took his time, focusing first on the parts of him that people said were perfect.
His face, shoulders, and chest. Next, his belly, rounding with child.
He trailed his fingers down past the swell of his belly to that forbidden place beneath his generous cock.
While other Flowers had a small, tight, nearly invisible seam, his was long and curved.
One twisted, mottled petal visibly protruded while the others were fused shut.
When other Flowers bloomed, their petals unfurled and opened wide, beckoning, glistening enticingly.
He’d done that once, too. He’d felt so beautiful when he bloomed under the eyes of his adoring acolyte, a man he loved and sexually desired, but everyone told him it was wrong and shameful.
Everyone said he’d made a mistake. And now, he’d never feel like that again.
Ardor sat on the bed. He released a slow breath and dragged his index finger over his stiffening cock to rest feather-light against the crooked, puckered lips of his deformed flower below it.
After a great deal of humiliating effort, he and Jain had coaxed his damaged bloom to open enough to admit an insemination tool or fingers, but he would never have the dewy, fragrant orifice royals expected of their Flowers.
Tentatively, Ardor slipped his finger into the narrow channel as he had so many times before, but immediately withdrew as foreign pleasure wound its way up his spine.
He’d only ever touched himself there clinically, even when he was sharing the breeding bed with Sindar.
It was strange to touch himself in private, without Sindar’s finger alongside his to offer silent reassurance.
During the ceremonies, Ardor was preoccupied with getting pregnant.
Getting the semen inside him was all that mattered.
As a result, he wasn’t wholly certain what his own body felt like.
The anxiety of breeding—not only of failing, but of Sindar seeing his body and knowing he was a fraud, an imperfect being masquerading as divine—kept him from registering any sensation but that of Sindar’s finger inside him and the depth of his own as he struggled to inseminate.
Ardor released a slow breath. He must be rational about this.
At the very least, he should know what Sindar felt when they were together.
His bloom would permit minor penetration for another month, at least, before it protectively fused shut, guarding the prize within.
He drew a slow breath and slipped his finger inside again for several seconds before withdrawing it.
The third time, he thought of the king of Kysan going to his knees, and his stomach warmed.
Ardor’s breath hissed between his teeth.
Goddess, this libido was maddening. He threw caution to the wind and pushed his finger fully inside.
Immediately, his flower responded with gentle, rhythmic clenching, and pleasure fanned over his hips.
His instinct was to withdraw, but he remained as he was, staring determinedly at his reflection, regulating his breathing.
Jain had coached him on exercises to encourage his flower to open.
He knew what to do. When he’d acclimated, he slowly moved his finger in and out, contemplating the sensations that followed.
Despite years of baggage and trauma, it felt good.
Exquisite heat swam through him as his body grew wet, drawing his finger deeper, and he once again pictured Sindar on his knees.
The thought of sharing this with someone, after going so long without intimate touch, stirred his flower.
It clenched powerfully, a fragrant musk filling his nose, and he remained that way until the contractions subsided.
His finger was slick with fragrant nectar when he withdrew it. He was trembling.
Touching himself felt good, but it would feel a lot better if Sindar were doing it.
He banished the thought immediately. Once Sindar saw him, he’d be cured of his besottment for good.
No royal would want a mangled flower. Ardor could not bear to have a repeat of Xandar’s confusion-turned-resentment at the sight of his body, but it was unavoidable.
It was only a matter of time before Sindar finally saw what he was.
Ardor composed himself and closed his robe. As the rush of discovery faded, the dark reality set in. Sindar would see him eventually, and it was irresponsible not to warn him. Better to broach the subject now before their relationship grew more complicated.
As he went about his day, he considered various scenarios. Words could not fully explain what his body looked like. He needed an illustration, but he was loath to draw one himself, let alone have someone else do it.
Ardor strode through the gardens, his eyes flitting from one lily to the next.
And there he found it. A mutated bloom, unable to fully open, grew among its flawless peers.
It only lived because Sindar had placed a prohibition on snipping living blooms. Otherwise, a vigilant gardener would have snuffed it out.
That afternoon, after many false starts, Ardor wrote the most difficult letter he’d ever penned.
Will you visit me in the gardens this evening?